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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194183">Heartbreaking: The Goth Kid You Hang Out With Just Rearranged Your Worldview</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/faedemon/pseuds/faedemon'>faedemon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>faedemon's Ectober Week 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Danny Phantom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ectober (Danny Phantom), Ectober Week 2020 (Danny Phantom), Ectogun, Gen, Graphic Description, Minor Character Death, Moral Dilemmas, does it count as a character if its just a miscellaneous ghost?, its not a sentient ghost, unlikely friendship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:35:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27194183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/faedemon/pseuds/faedemon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I just wonder sometimes if they’re not something different.” Spike says.  “Something alive.”</p><p>She bristles. “They’re ghosts. They’re dead,” Valerie bites out, standing up. Her lunch is only half-eaten. “Everyone knows Ember is that girl who died in a housefire in the 80s.”</p><p>Spike doesn’t move, unaffected by Valerie’s aggression. “Sure, she died. But maybe she’s just different now.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>faedemon's Ectober Week 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heartbreaking: The Goth Kid You Hang Out With Just Rearranged Your Worldview</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Today's theme for Ectober Week Day One (10/25/2020) is Fog/Splatter. I chose to go with the latter!</p><p>The title is a play on that clickhole article "Heartbreaking: The Worst Person You Know Just Made A Great Point"</p><p>Crossposted on FFN <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13728522/1/Heartbreaking-The-Goth-Kid-You-Hang-Out-With-Just-Changed-Your-Mind">here</a> and on tumblr <a href="https://moipale.tumblr.com/post/632970633273294848/heartbreaking-the-goth-kid-you-hang-out-with-just">here!</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you ever think about how weird the ghosts are?”</p><p>It’s Spike who asks the question, and Valerie only doesn’t jump because she’s had months of practice pretending nothing phases her.</p><p>Spike—real name Sam Edmond, though no one calls him that—is an upperclassman, somewhere between goth and punk, and a complete outcast in the school. Since she’d been booted from the A-Listers, Valerie had taken to sitting with him at lunch for two reasons: he’s idiot repellant, and he doesn’t talk much. Perfect for a girl who wants to be able to stew in her own rage without being interrupted.</p><p>He’d started actually speaking to her a few weeks ago. It was mostly greetings here and there, or questions about when pep rallies or ghost attack drills were scheduled, but it had gradually grown into what might pass for full conversations. Valerie’s not exactly sure when that happened. It just sort of crept up on her, and now they’re… friends? More than just tablemates, at least.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Valerie asks, a little shortly. In her mind’s eye she sees Phantom, streaking across the night sky, away from her. She’d failed to catch him again last night. She bats the thought away, frustrated.</p><p>“I mean, they’re not like the stories, y’know?” Valerie makes a face, and he goes on. “They’re not manifesting in broken electronics or slamming doors or flickering lights. The ghosts from legends are subtle. Amity’s ghosts pretty fuckin’ aren’t.” As he talks, Spike doodles on a napkin. Stealing a glance at it, Valerie makes out Skulker’s distinct frame—and a very prominent bazooka. No, he… he is not very subtle.</p><p>“Does it matter?” Valerie asks, tiredly.</p><p>“I just wonder sometimes if they’re not something different.” Spike straightens out of his slouch, stretching before he slumps back over, half-laying on the table. “Something alive.”</p><p>She bristles. “They’re ghosts. They’re dead,” Valerie bites out, standing up. Her lunch is only half-eaten. “Everyone knows Ember is that girl who died in a housefire in the 80s.”</p><p>Spike doesn’t move, unaffected by Valerie’s aggression. “Sure, she died. But maybe she’s just different now.”</p><p>Valerie has gathered up her bag and moved to throw her lunch tray out when Spike speaks again. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you?” he says, almost quietly, but it cuts into her anyway. “That they bleed when they’re cut.”</p><p>She turns around and leaves.</p><p> </p><p>She shouldn’t put any stock into Spike’s words. He doesn’t know anything about ghosts; he hasn’t fought them, he’s not scientists like the Fentons are. Valerie has more authority on the subject than he’ll ever have.</p><p>That doesn’t stop what he said from creeping into her mind every time she tries to rest, though. It keeps bubbling up in the back of her thoughts, arresting her ponderings when she least expects it, infecting her mind like a slow-acting poison, growing more and more intense with each passing day. She doesn’t <i>want</i> to think about it, she <i>can’t</i> think about it, and yet still it haunts her.</p><p>Ha, <i>haunts.</i></p><p>It’s not anything major that forces her to let the words come, to examine them. It’s not the ghost dog, or Phantom, or anything like that. Instead, it’s a bird.</p><p>Valerie has always loved birds. Her mom took care of a cockatiel named Butler when she was younger; it was a silly thing. Loud, too, but Valerie was a loud kid, and they were two peas in a pod. When Mom died, her grandma ended up taking Butler, since Dad was never much one for taking care of pets. She hasn’t seen Butler in a while. Grandma never did like Dad much.</p><p>The bird that’s decided to roost on the ledge outside their apartment window is decidedly not a cockatiel. It’s as big as Valerie’s arm, for one, and it’s that sickening ectoplasmic green that she’s become all too accustomed to. And the residents have started sending their landlord rather aggressive complaints, which their landlord then redirected to Dad, saying, “It’s your apartment, Gray. Get rid of the thing or get out.”</p><p>Funnily enough, what Spike had said is the furthest thing from her mind when she goes outside that night, at around 2 A.M. She doesn’t have her suit on; instead, she has an ectogun in her hand and a net strapped to her hip, just in case. The bird hasn’t made any moves to attack so far, and Valerie’s expecting to catch it by surprise.</p><p>It glows, as all ghosts do, so it’s not hard to spot it against the dark, looming façade of her apartment building.  It’s three floors up, well within the range of her gun, and Valerie would wager that it’s not a very strong ghost.</p><p><i>One shot will do it</i>, she thinks.</p><p>Valerie raises her gun, both hands on it, steady as can be. She knows her way around weapons by now—knows the weight of a gun in her hand, a bowstaff, a bat. She knows the kickback. She’s an expert on her hoverboard, movement smooth and balance perfect. She’s far more powerful than this puny interloper.</p><p>Trained on that acid-green silhouette, Valerie lets out a breath. She lets her pulse slow. She listens to the low whistle of wind down her empty street, a far cry from the busy murmur of the suburbs where she used to live. She licks her lips, then blinks, just once.</p><p>Ectoguns don’t make a lot of noise when their triggers are pulled. There’s something different about the projectiles; something less physical than a bullet, that makes a whiny sort of pop instead of a sharp blast. Valerie’s never liked the sound that much. It feels less monumental to pull the trigger—like a toy, almost.</p><p>She pulls, and it pops, and the <i>splatter</i> of the ghost against the brick of the building echoes louder, farther, than her gun ever could. She’d brought one of the bigger ones, one with a little punch.</p><p>She didn’t expect the bird to explode on impact.</p><p>Valerie brings the gun back to her side and just <i>looks</i> for a minute. She looks for long enough to watch the spray of ectoplasm begin to drip, and a piece of—neck? head?—peel away from the wall, falling into the nest the bird had begun to build.</p><p>She can’t see any distinct guts or bones from here, but does that matter? In the dead of night, with a gun in her hand, does that matter?</p><p>She vomits against the side of the building before she goes back inside, Spike’s voice ringing like church bells in her mind, loud, so loud she can hear nothing else—</p><p>
  <i>They bleed when they’re cut.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I wonder sometimes if they’re something different.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Something</i>
</p><p>
  </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <i><br/>
</i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i>alive.</i>
  </p>
</div><i></i><br/>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hiya! thanks for reading + leave a comment if you enjoyed! they mean a lot to me.</p><p>if you want to chat, you can find me on tumblr at my main blog <a href="https://faedemon.tumblr.com/">faedemon</a> or my sideblog <a href="https://moipale.tumblr.com/">moipale</a>!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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